We’re coming up on midnight. The room is loud, everyone champagne drunk, ignorant of volume, and, wow, the air in here is intense, all hot breath and designer perfume. Everyone wants to smell good because this is the hour it happens, when it’s determined who goes home alone, and judging by the pungency, a lot of people in here don’t want to end up in an empty bed tonight. They want to attract. They want to be chosen. So they sneak off to the bathroom to fix their hair, stare at their smudged reflections, primp, powder, perfume—​­spritzing excessively, with reckless abandon. I inhale.

It’s hope, is what it is. It’s sweet but also pretty desperate. Pretty boring.

I turn to the guy next to me. He’s deliberately underdressed in a white T-shirt and jeans. He’s drinking a beer. I thought this party was too chic for beer.

“Where did you get that?” I ask him.

“The bar,” he says in a tone I don’t care for. I stick my tongue out at him, and he cracks a smile.

“Clio Louise Barnes,” I say, holding out a hand.

He stares at my hand for a moment before shaking it. “Ethan.”

“What do you do, Ethan?”

“Really?”

“What?”

“Small talk?”

“We can exchange childhood traumas if you like,” I say, helping myself to a sip of his beer. He allows it to happen, and I decide I’m into him. He reeks of cologne, so I know I can leave with him tonight if I want to.